By Jack B. Lyle
I have a Yankee friend that finds it humorous that grown men in the South continue to call their fathers "Daddy". I reckon them Yankee boys just don't know the depth of the relationships shared among fathers and sons in the Deep South. I could write a book on the many things my Daddy has taught me, but I'll keep this article limited to hunting.

My first vivid memory of going hunting dates back to 1965 or '66, when I was 5 or 6 years old. It was a cool Saturday morning some time in the fall of the year when I coaxed Daddy out of bed to take me on a hunting trip. My older brother, Billy (he goes by Bill now that he is all grown up and stuff), had been deer hunting with Daddy for a couple of years, and it just tore me up that I couldn't go along. It kind of even irked me - at the time - that Billy got to go along with us that day. This was MY hunting trip, and I wasn't playing second fiddle to anybody! Of course, unbeknownst to me, Daddy had that covered. I would have the only gun on the trip, and I was going to do ALL the shooting.

I am the fourth of five children, and we always had guns in the house when we were growing up. We all knew exactly where they were kept, and how to use them. Most importantly, we grew up in the good old days when parents did their jobs as parents. A couple of years ago, we were all together for Momma and Daddy's 50th wedding anniversary. The subject of Daddy's guns came up, and I asked my brothers and sisters if any of them had ever touched one without permission and supervision. Nobody had. Back then, you stood a good chance of facing Daddy's belt, or worse still, having to go out and "pick a switch" for Momma to use on your own bare legs!!!

Nowadays, the worst thing a child can face in many homes is "time out". Or, I imagine some kids these days are sent to their rooms - which are complete with TVs, stereos, computers and video games - for punishment. No sir! In our house you towed the line, or faced the penalty. No warnings. No counting to 3. No gray area. You knew the rules, and when you broke one you could count on a swift trial and immediate punishment. (I still swear Momma has eyes in the back of her head.) I was a pretty sharp kid, and I made it all the way through my childhood with only one spanking for throwing rocks. My older siblings clearly laid the groundwork for acceptable and unacceptable behavior! I took good mental notes, and avoided Momma's wrath for the most part. I knew then, and I know now, how lucky we were to have such good parents.

Daddy, Billy and I put my trusty Daisy BB-gun into the trunk of the old '53 Chevy (That car is another story. Daddy bought it for $12.00), and headed over to the "big" woods on the other side of Trussville, Alabama. I imagined deer, rabbits and squirrels were all fair game. I didn't have a clue that Alabama had just earnestly begun the whitetail-restocking program a few years before. There probably wasn't a deer for 50 miles in any direction, but I was out to find and bag one. (Little did I know that it would be 1982 before I would harvest my first deer.) We walked, and walked, and walked. Didn't see a single critter of any kind! But, alas, Daddy found an old plastic Clorox bottle that he set up on a stick for me to shoot. I must have shot it 50 times, and nobody else got a turn. This was my hunt!

Since that first hunt, I have been fortunate to have successfully hunted and fished all over the U.S., Canada, Mexico and New Zealand. None brings back such vivid memories as that trip with my Daisy BB-gun in that old blue Chevy on that fall day 35 years ago with Daddy and Billy. I doubt Daddy even remembers that trip, but he planted a seed for the love of hunting in me that day. For that, I will always be grateful. I just wish I could pay him back.

Daddy is approaching 78 years of age now, and he still loves to hunt. I don't know many men his age that continue to climb trees with climbing tree-stands, and sit out in the weather for hours at a time. Billy and I have a deer lease in Montgomery County, Alabama, and Daddy still goes with us most of the time. He'd rather hunt with his old World War II Springfield '03-A3 bolt-action rifle - that he purchased from the NRA for $15.00 back in 1960 and "sporterized" himself - than with that new-fangled Weatherby rifle and Leupold scope I bought for him at Mark's Outdoor Sports a few years ago. (I think he uses the Weatherby from time-to-time just so my feelings don't get hurt.)

A couple of years ago, Daddy was sitting in a tripod stand in an area where we had taken lots of good bucks over the years. I was hunting three of four hundred yards away when Daddy came over the radio saying he was about to shoot a doe. I asked him how far away it was, because I knew he was using that old service rifle with peep sights. He calmly replied "a hundred fifty yards, or so". Before I could question his taking the shot, I heard that old rifle crack. I waited a couple of minutes before I replied - thinking he might be aiming for a second shot. I asked if he got it, and his calm reply was "of course".

My best friend, Marc Angle, had heard the conversation on the radio, and got to Daddy's stand first. They walked down to the doe that had fallen in her tracks - center-punched - right through the heart! Marc gave Daddy a "high-five" for making such an awesome shot. The radio was abuzz with all the club members raving over Grand-Tom (Daddy's affectionate nick-name used by all the "boys" at our club when speaking or referring to him) going "downtown" with that 60 year-old war relic. I never told anybody, But I sat up in my tree listening to all that carrying-on over the radio with tears in my eyes. Overcome with emotion. Not just because I was proud of him. Rather, because I didn't want those experiences to end. I wondered how many hunting seasons Daddy had left.

Billy and I take turns "sharing" Daddy when we hunt. One morning he'll go out with me, and then go with Billy in the afternoon. Billy and I have never said anything about it to each other, but I know that when he takes Daddy to the base of this tree, he stands there until Daddy climbs up and gets himself and his gear safely situated before he heads to his own stand - just like I do when I take him. Likewise, I know when he "has" Daddy for the evening hunt, he gets down just a little bit early to make sure he is at the base of Daddy's tree before he tries to come down on his own. I suspect Daddy has picked up on the personal attention he gets from Billy and I, but he ain't going to mess up a good thing by mentioning it to either of us!

I inadvertently put some pressure on Billy last year. I "had" Daddy for the evening hunt, and had gotten him settled into his stand around 2:00 p.m. on a green-field with a lot of buck sign around it. I checked in with him every 30 minutes, or so, via the radio. He had seen some does in the field, but was holding out for a shooter-buck. Sure enough, about 10 minutes before dark I heard him shoot. (He was using the Weatherby that day, and he made it a point to tell me that he never could have seen that buck without that fine rifle and scope I had bought him. I'll bet he can see better with his naked eyes than I can through a pair of Swarovski's!) Anyway, I got to his stand and we went to the spot where the buck had been standing. A short walk through the plantation pines, and we found his buck - a nice 7-point with good mass.

We got back to the camp-house and backed-up to the skinning rack to unload the deer. My chest popped out when Daddy dropped the tailgate and told the guys standing around, "Jack put me on this big ol' buck". I had definitely one-upped my brother! I was clearly the favorite son - for the time being.

The next Saturday evening Billy took Daddy down to the power-line field. Daddy always likes to hunt that field because, in his words, "It's a pretty good poke from one end to the other". That translates into 300 yards. He lives to go "downtown" with a rifle.

I was out of radio range, and had become a little concerned because Billy and Daddy hadn't come out of the woods yet, and it was well past dark. I drove down to the gate leading to the power-line, and was finally able to raise them on the radio. I asked Billy why they were so late after dark coming out. He replied, with disappointment in his voice, that Daddy had shot a little basket-rack 6-point buck, and they had to trail it all over creation before they found it. I started dreading going back to the camp-house and explaining to the guys why my Daddy had shot an immature buck. Our rules are steadfast on shooting bucks. You don't shoot it unless you are going to mount it, or face a stiff fine.

They finally made it out to the gate, and I sheepishly walked up to the cab of my brother's pick-up truck. I congratulated Daddy on killing another buck - not letting on that I was worried about the ramifications we were going to face back at the camp. I hadn't even bothered to look in the back of the truck. When Billy shone his flashlight towards the back of the truck all I could see were horns all over the place! Daddy had killed the biggest 10-point buck anyone had seen in years, and the reason it took them so long to come out of the woods was because he was too heavy for then to drag and load!

We made a beeline to the skinning rack where they guys were busy cleaning some other deer that had been harvested. When Daddy dropped the tailgate, he proudly said "Billy put me on this big ol' buck".

Okay, so Billy is ahead right now. Daddy and I each purchased a World War II era MI Garand from the Civilian Marksmanship Program (CMP) this past summer. Just like the one Daddy carried in THE war. I can't wait for Daddy to go "downtown" with his Garand with the original iron peep sights this fall. I can just hear him say, as he drops the tailgate, "Jack put me on this big ol' buck".

It has just occurred to me that killing a deer is just a bonus for Daddy. He loves to be with his boys". His boys love him, too. That's why we take Daddy huntin'.

Oh, yeah, my Yankee friend? He'll just never understand southern boys and their Daddy's. I feel sorry for him.